


After the Year

by soratori42



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, This is only barely a fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soratori42/pseuds/soratori42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at how some people (really one person in this story) deal with life after the Year that Never Was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Year

**Author's Note:**

> My first doctor who fanfic, though only very loosely one
> 
> beta'd by a friend

Days that never were. It’s a strange idea, that there could have been days, weeks, months, that never happened yet they did because a few people may remember them. Does that make them real? Because you remember, is it more real than something you forgot? I can and often do forget to buy milk when I go shopping. I still needed it- it’s still real; I still sigh at myself when I get home and realize that I had forgotten it. But if there was a day that never really happened, no one should remember it. But a few people do and they feel as though it happened even though for anyone else it never did. To them, that day is as real as any other day for us. It’s a strange idea, and not one I think I can really accept.

Sometimes, though, I feel a weird sensation while I’m talking to someone, like I’ve known them for months, even though this is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on them. It happens with places too.Sometimes, when I manage to fall asleep, I’ll dream of knowing them. Sometimes, I’ll see a house or some office building, and feel like I could navigate my way around the whole place even though I’ve never been inside. Sometimes I look at a patch of empty ground, expecting to see a statue of someone there. If I’m not too busy, I’ll sometimes step into the building, but quickly leave, because everything feels wrong, wrong. It’s all too perfect, with everyone living their normal lives, instead of something else, I don’t know what. One day, I stop in a small town on the way to visit my parents when I get the weird sense again. I’m looking at a small grocery store, the kind that would only exist in a town this small. Against my better judgment, I park my car and step inside the store.

Again, it just feels and looks wrong, even though I can’t place what it should be like. While I’m looking around, a woman comes up to me. She sighs, like she’s seen this all before, and she asks me if I’d like to have a cup of coffee while she tells her story. Snapping back into reality, I quickly say yes without really knowing what I’m getting into. A few minutes later, I’m sipping at my cup of coffee even though I don’t even really like it that much, just to listen to this woman speak. She looks to be in her mid-fifties, but she still seems full of life. I notice that she wears a wedding band on a gold chain around her neck. I decide not to ask.

She tells me a strange story. She tells me of the Year that Never Was. At first I scoff at the idea, but I eventually start to accept it. It probably helps that I feel as though I can trust her, even though I’ve never seen her before in my life. I feel like we’ve been through hell together, but I’m not sure if either of us really made it out. It’s not any stranger than the idea of a Year that never really happened, but it did because a few remember it.

“But I remember at least a little.”

“You get a sense of deja vu sometimes. That’s not quite the same. There’s about a hundred or so people in the world who truly remember the Year as though it was any other year they had lived.”

“Why do I get these flashes of half-memory then?”

“It just happens whenever time is rewritten like that.”

“Who are you exactly?”  
“Apparently someone you knew quite well during the Year.”

“Yeah…. but how do you know about what actually happened. Who uses the phrase ‘time is rewritten’?”

“A friend of a friend… It’s a long story.”

I continue staring at the wall, figuring it was better not to ask.

“Why are we the only ones who remember anything at all?”

“Some people just don’t remember. Some people try to black it out. Others… some people died during the Year, and have nothing to remember.”

“Would the people that died remember being dead or dying?”

“Dying, maybe. Remember being dead? Well, that really depends on what you believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“It depends on whether you believe there is anything to remember after death.”

I find myself staring at the wall again.

“Look, there’s a group of people. We meet up every month or so just to listen to each other. You can come if you feel like you need to.”

She slides a piece of paper across the table.

“Here’s my contact information. If you want to come to the meeting or if you just want to talk about it, feel free to call anytime.”

She smiles and leaves. I end up only drinking half of my cup of coffee. As I leave the table to throw the cup away, I pocket the paper.

The group is beyond kind. When I met them, I felt like I was seeing old friends. They had all found their way to the store like me, so I knew we all had known each other during the Year. It was interesting getting to know them again, outside of whatever the situation was like during the Year. I knew it was hellish, but anything else was too fuzzy. Getting to know them again. Again, like I had known them before. I had, but not really. I tell them about the dreams, and they understand.

The dreams. Sometimes, when i fall asleep, I dream of the days that never really happened. Sometimes, I see myself talking with the people I know and yet I don’t. Other times, though, I am myself, running away from something, I don’t know what, though I suspect I knew then. I run and run until I look down and see that a red flower has blossomed in my chest. I fall onto my knees and then start to fall towards the ground. Suddenly, I wake up in my own bed soaked in a cold sweat.

The Year that Never Was. It’s an odd idea, but every day it becomes a little bit more real for me. Every day, I meet a person that I inexplicably know, or see a place that I feel should look different. Every night, I remember a little bit more through my dreams. But, because I remember, does that make it real?


End file.
